


Smoke and Silence

by Arcanista



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood, Darkness, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Menstruation, No Dialogue, Oral Sex, POV Third Person Limited, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Present Tense, Secret Relationship, Sex, Shameless Smut, Vaginal Fingering, cupid and psyche
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 13:06:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3693389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcanista/pseuds/Arcanista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every three nights, a woman arrives before Samson and has her way with him in utter silence. He thinks this just a dream, until one morning, he awakes to an unmistakable sign that everything has been real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke and Silence

She arrives in darkness, heralded only by the flash of light from her eyes. That too vanishes when the door snicks shut behind her. The unlooked-for presence spurs him awake, heart pounding. His hand gropes under a pillow for a knife that is not there. Samson's old habits will never die, even if he is never allowed to touch a weapon again.

He starts to speak, but she lays one finger across his lips. Her glove ends just below the first knuckle; satin skin and buttery leather both press through the space of three breaths, then her hand withdraws. He can barely see her outlined there, standing by the edge of his bed. He squints, but she has no features that he can see.

She slips atop him, straddles his nude chest. Her hands press his shoulders firmly to the bed, pinning him. His breath catches. This can only be a dream. The wispy silk of her dress puddles against his chin. Her scent is so close now: flowers he can't place, and spices, and a thick undercurrent of musk.

Her breath is on his face, washing him in fog. She kisses him: tiny little kisses, up his neck, along his jawline. Her lips stroke like velvet against his stubble, sweeping over the neglected skin. The tips of her pointed ears drift up his cheeks; her breath warms his neck.

Samson fears to touch her himself, fears she will melt like smoke before his fingers. His hands lift, tremble in the air. She straightens and catches his wrists in her hands. Fingers rest over the veins, stroking as his pulse quickens. She takes his hands and moves them to her breasts. Her dress remains a barrier between his fingers and her flesh, but the silk is finer, thinner than anything he has ever touched. She wears nothing at all beneath; more than anything else he feels her heat.

His hands squeeze, too tight, fingers sliding in the delicate dress. Her hands withdraw from his wrists, and her whole body slides downward. Her skirt covers his chest, his stomach, warm and smooth. He finds out she's not wearing any smalls down low, either, when she slowly grinds her wet slit up his cock. He gets stiffer with each stroke-- it takes only a few before he's fully hard and aching. Fast enough he can't help but be ashamed, a little. But why should he be? It's been a long time.

He rubs his thumbs over the breasts in his hands, curls his fingers and presses his knuckles into the soft flesh. He feels her tense atop him, her chest thrust forward when her back arches. Her hips raise, and Samson feels a hand reach around, guiding his cock upwards. His breath catches in his throat as she slides the head of his cock between slick, parting lower lips.

If this is a dream, then let him never forget it. Let every moment be burned in his memory forever. His hips strain upward, just as she presses down onto him. Samson releases her breasts and drags his hands her sides. The slick fabric catches on the calluses in his hands, snagging as he pulls them past.

When his hands reach her hips, she leans forward until her chest presses to his. Her knees go wide, just brushing against his hips. Only then, poised like that atop him, do her hips start working. She kisses him, her tongue pressing past his lips, dancing through his mouth. Samson squeezes, or tries to, but his hands slip in the silk and fall down to her thighs.

He holds on tight, and her hips work harder, fucking herself on him. She is using him: even in his dreams he can imagine nothing more. But their tongues tangle on each other and all his flesh is afire from her veiled-silk touch. Let her use him. Let his husk of a body be consumed by this entire.

Samson comes inside of her, too hard, too fast, too soon, but he feels her body go rigid. Does she come? She is silent even in ecstasy. He cannot tell, but her hips slow to a halt and his cock slips out, falling useless away from her.

She does not linger. No sooner than that does she pull away from him. Her body leaves his, and then comes the only sound of the night: two slaps of feet against the ground. The door opens, and he sees once more the flash of eyes as she looks back, and then he is alone.

When he awakes in the morning, he knows it for a dream. There is no sign he was ever anything but alone: not even her scent lingers behind. But he remembers it with so much more clarity than any other dream. He thinks on it when Dagna works on him. He thinks on it when Cullen demands information. Both of them notice his distraction. He doesn't give a shit.

Three nights later, he dreams of her again: the flash of eyes when she enters. The silken dress, the leather gloves that leave her fingers bare. She takes him, and uses him until he spends himself inside of her. Then she vanishes like smoke in the night air. Three nights after that, it's her mouth on his cock, devouring, wet and hot, her lips squeezing tight, hands pumping, teasing his balls until they're maddeningly tight. She takes him all the way back into her throat, and even then she is utterly silent.

He comes in her mouth and she drinks every drop and she leaves him like smoke. He is left alone and spent, gulping for air.

For nearly three weeks, this continues: every three nights, he dreams of her. Some days he thinks it might be real, but he cannot ever believe it. She leaves nothing behind, makes no sound. And no _real_  woman would ever want him. Not like this, not the way she fucks him, not so regular.

One night she comes in, and she settles atop his body with her thighs against his ears. She doesn't wait for him to do a single thing before her tongue attacks his cock, licking it from base to head. He lifts her head to lick at her slit, and Maker, she's wetter than he's ever known a woman could be. His tongue slips and slides when he tries to lick her, and he just gives up in favour of sucking her clit. He fingers her instead, reaching deep and thrusting, curving his fingers to work just the right spot. Her tongue jumps against his cock, so he must be doing something right.

Only... when he wakes up the next morning, something's not right. His face is sticky, and when he looks at his hands? His fingers are stained crimson. Has all this been _real_? He rolls the notion around in his head as he washes up, as he goes through the rest of his day. He has to _know_. He has to know who might be coming for him. Who sees so much in him that she keeps coming back.

He nabs a glowstone and places it beside his bed on the evening of the third day, and covers it with a pillowcase. That hides the glow to his satisfaction. His heart pounds hard enough that he fears it might fly out of his chest. He sets himself to bed and he waits.

She comes, right on schedule, eyes glinting in the moment before she shuts the door behind her. Samson thinks of unveiling the stone to see her right now, but he decides to wait. He lets her approach, lets her join him on the bed. Her hands run down his chest as she kneels beside him. Samson runs his fingers down her arms while she leans down to kiss him.

He catches on the cuff of her gloves, and he remembers she's never taken them off. He wants to feel the whole of her hands, and not just her fingers. But when he takes hold of them to pull them away, she jerks her hands back. Still, he has enough of a grip on her left glove that her hand comes free of it-- and all at once the tiny bedroom is lit with an eerie green glow.

No less than the Inquisitor herself sits kneeling on his bed, face stained green by the light from the now-exposed Anchor. The glare from her eyes ensures he can't read any expression on her face, but she remains frozen for two heartbeats, three. Then she jerks the glove out of his nerveless fingers, and flees the room. Even now she shuts the door silently behind her, but she still vanishes like smoke.

He knows he's ruined it then. Three nights later, she doesn't return to him, nor does she three after that.

Samson _has_  to win her back, somehow. But how? He catches glimpses of her, sometimes, when he's giving Cullen the information he needs about troops, encampments, supply lines. She never even looks at him. Despite that Cullen just grills him harder, demands more than Samson can even remember anymore.

Dagna's not much better. Rather than fingernail clippings and hair, she decides she needs blood, thin ribbons of skin. Oh, she bandages him well, even spares some potion to help stem the bleeding. But somehow she always picks the spots that _hurt_  the most.

The Inquisitor passes through more than once, watches Dagna work. She never even looks at Samson.

What would it take to just get her to look at him? He won't grovel. He won't beg forgiveness. How would he even know what to say to her when they've never spoken? But he glances her way when she passes. Is it his imagination, or does she contrive to do that more often?

Samson spends his hours alone in the gardens; he'd prefer a good bar, all told, but here nobody tries to start fights with him. Here they just glare, mostly, but one of the gardeners insists he make himself useful if he's to sit there. And so he finds himself separating a mixed sack of seeds, all into different bowls. It's dull, tedious work, and the constant squinting at seeds makes his eyes water, but it takes his mind off of the Inquisitor.

It makes for a routine, at least, for the next week or so.

He's just packing up for the evening, everything stained golden from the dying sunlight when a shadow rises before him. He looks up, and there she is: the midnight-haired elf, in a loose blue gown. The mark on her hand is dimmer, away from the dark, but it is unmistakable.

She says nothing, but looks down at him while he kneels in the dirt at her feet. A strange impulse siezes Samson, and he reaches to the rosebush beside him. He twists a flower free, fingers catching on the thorns. He holds the rose up to her, tiny droplets of blood trickling down the stem.

The Inquisitor stares unmoved at him, still as a statue. Samson fears the gesture was worthless until she lifts her hand and places it over his. She bends, not to smell the rose, but to brush her lips over the petals. She squeezes, driving the prickles deeper into his hand.

But she never lets go.

**Author's Note:**

> Original Kinkmeme prompt:
> 
> There's a woman who comes to his bed in the dark of the night, she doesn't talk and he can't see her face, they do things and then she simply leaves. she comes back almost every night and instead of accepting this pleasant deal, his curiosity gets the best of him, he lights a candle (or maybe he removes her glove and the anchor starts glowing) whatever you see fit A!A. Anyway, once unmasked, the nocturnal visits stops and he's willing to do anything to get her back. (yeah it's the myth of Psyche and Eros) 
> 
> I kept some other elements of the myth, while I was at it.


End file.
